


As Time Goes By

by carryonstarkid



Category: Gallagher Girls Series - Ally Carter
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27711281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonstarkid/pseuds/carryonstarkid
Summary: Rachel calls in a favor.
Relationships: Rachel Morgan/Joseph "Joe" Solomon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	As Time Goes By

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous request: Please write Joe vs Rachel in a Moroccan bar omg

She’s welcomed at the door by the bowtied charm of North African nightlife—crowded tables and rowdy chatter. Card games and drink orders. A smokey haze lingers above the room, curls catching along the lights, and music stretches toward the peak of every last archway. They’re a big band ensemble, live, led by a charismatic piano player with a voice like warm coals.

It’s the type of bar that hasn’t changed much since the 1940s, but she’s the type of woman who has never once looked out of place, no matter the era.

It comes as second nature to her as she takes in the stone, the smells, the warmth of scattered light. She’s been in dozens of buildings just like this one, time and time again, though she doesn’t let the memories surface. Instead, she scans the dim room, doubtless, determined, and finally she spots him. Alone.

Alone.

He’s at a table for two—out of habit, maybe—but the second seat is empty. For as long as she’s known him, he has existed solely as an extension of Matt. One might say the two had been inseparable, although to do so implies the presence of two separate entities, which could never do the pair of them justice. Matt and Joe had been exactly that—Matt _and_ Joe. Not one without the other. Not ever.

He’s alone now. They all are.

Brass soars smoothly overhead, with a melody that she’s almost certainly danced to before. It compliments her steps as she slips through the crowds and slides past servers. He must see her coming. Must sense her somehow. He’s too good not to. But he doesn’t move, and she gets the distinct impression that maybe Joe Solomon is done running. For good.

His glass lands heavy against the table, ringing alongside a handful of identical crystal pieces—all empty, save the faintly brown ice that sits melted at their bottoms. Everything about him is slower, heavier, as he looks up to see her. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...”

His beard is longer than she’s ever seen it, and it’s started to grey in their years apart. Shadows cut at his body in ways they never did before. Where his gaze once pierced, it now drifts—unfocused, and soft—and he appears more exhausted than a man like him ever should. “Joseph,” she says. “I called.”

With her words, his gaze falls, as though he doesn’t possess the strength to hold it up anymore. “S’been busy,” he drawls. “Or something.”

The heat of a Moroccan summer sits thick in the air between them, unaided by the fans above. “Or something,” she says, eyeing his collection of glasses once more. “How many have you had?”

“Tonight?” he mutters. “Or since...?”

He doesn’t need to say the name. She hears it in her sleepless nights and her wakeless mornings. If Joe has a number, she doesn’t want to hear it, because she knows her own and she suspects that he’s more than doubled it. “Tonight.”

He turns the empty glass in his hand, a gentle sway to his movements that can’t be blamed on the music. There’s a moment when she regrets coming—a moment when she realizes that this isn’t Joe. Not anymore. Not in the way she needs him. “I tried, Rachel,” he says instead. “I tried to find him. I swear I tried—”

“Joe, don’t.”

“The trail went completely dry—never seen anything like it.”

“Stop it.”

“There’s almost always _something_. There’s always something. A conversation with a stranger, or footprints in the snow—”

“Stop.”

“S’like he knew. It’s like he didn’t want—”

“That’s enough,” she says, and she only shouts because the music has gotten louder. And his voice has gotten louder. And everything has gotten louder. “I’m not here to talk about Matt. I don’t want to talk about Matt.”

The name shreds at her lips, and lands like a dagger on the table. Only then is Joe finally able to look up at her, a lingering glance from the top of his eyes. His voice is quieter than hers. “Then why are you here, Rachel?”

The piano sounds of chaos. The drum, of gunshots. Humidity settles along her skin, heat soaking into her muscles, and she sits. Because she cannot stand any longer. Rachel Morgan joins Joe Solomon at his empty table for two. “I can’t stop thinking about the last time I was here,” she says. Then, after some thought. “ _We_ were here, I suppose.”

Joe nods. “He does that to you,” he says. “No matter where you go, he shows up.”

“He was just too goddamn excited to be here,” she says. “The culture, the cities—”

“The chocolate.”

“He ate the chocolate until he was sick to his stomach.”

“I thought you weren’t here to talk about Matt.”

“I’m not.”

“Rachel.”

“I’m _not_.”

“Rachel.”

“But on that last night,” she says. “That night when his comms went silent... he had plenty of close calls, but that was among the closest. And I just remember waiting— _waiting,_ like I’ve never waited before, all tight and terrible. From the top of the embassy, I just waited, looking out over the square, hoping beyond hope that I’d see him slip out of that courthouse. And when he did, he—”

“Winked at you,” Joe finishes. “I remember. You gave him hell for that one for months. He walked out like nothing happened, and smiled, and winked right at you.”

“One of the top agents in his field, and he risks his cover—risks _our_ cover. It was foolish.”

Joe’s finger finds its way around the rim of his glass, rolling over crystal until it rings, although they can hardly hear it above the band. “Why are you here, Rachel?”

And she’s forgotten. Forgotten what it feels like to be surrounded by people who can read her. Who are specially trained to reach into her soul. “I feel like I’m waiting, Joe,” she says. “I feel like I’m stuck on that embassy rooftop, and I have been for years, and I would give anything— _anything_ —for him to walk out and wink at me. I’d give anything for a wink that says ‘It’s okay. I’m here now.’”

Rachel doesn’t need to be trained in the art of body language to see Joe’s jaw set. She doesn’t need to be an agent to notice the way he swallows, long and slow and hard. But she is, so she does. “He’s not going to do that, Rachel.”

There’s very few people in the world who have both the necessary covert knowledge and the necessary guts to speak to her about Matthew. Even if he is drunk and even if it does only last the night, some part of her is grateful for Joe’s presence. “I need you, Joe.”

And that seems to sober him up, even if only slightly. “You’ve never needed anyone.”

“That’s not true,” she says, and they both know that in the world of Rachel Morgan, there has always been at least one person that made her stronger. “And now I need you.”

“You don’t.”

“Joe,” she says, stern, but soft. Because maybe there haven’t been enough people in the world who spoke softly to him. And maybe he needs her, too. “Cammie’s starting CoveOps this year. I need someone—I need you.”

“I’m not your guy.”

“You’re a teacher,” she says. “You taught Matt everything he knows.”

“Knew,” Joe says. “I taught Matt everything he _knew.”_

“So then do better,” she says, and it’s the end of it. It really is. “Be better. Get your head out of your whiskey, and come back to the States, and stop running away from me. From him. I need you, Joe. I need you to come home.”

She stands, no longer willing to join him at his lonely table. She stands, and she realizes that she never should have expected this to go any better than it has. There’s a flight she has to catch, and a school she has to run, and a daughter she has to love. She’s too smart to hang all of her hope on Joe Solomon.

Still. “I’ll be waiting, Joe.” And the band continues to play as she finds her own way out.


End file.
